Voicemail
by pretentious-emo-kid
Summary: Post 5.5. Angst ahoy. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

Voicemail

The room is small, square, windowless. The walls clad in tiles of a dirty, off-white colour – they speak of one too many hurried scrub downs. She tries not to imagine the wide variety of bodily fluids that have been splattered across these walls over the years; she knows that she has contributed a few samples of her own.

She is trying not to imagine anything, in fact. Trying to completely empty her head of thought. Her attempts are heartfelt; heroic, even; but in vain, nonetheless.

Her four day ordeal is over, she supposes, but that means nothing. Any ordeals, crises, upsets that were formerly hers are over now. She is about to die.

She flinches violently as they enter the room, but she does not resist when they grab her; she fully comprehends the futility of such an act, and it is as though she does not want to disappoint herself.

She is grateful, when they emerge from the building, that it is night. Though there is, perhaps, a certain romance to dying in the sunlight, she doesn't think her eyes could take the punishment of it. It is almost funny to be worrying about such things when they are about to put a bullet through her head, but it is the only way she will be able to get through this – don't think more than five seconds ahead, because in ten seconds, you might be dead.

They push her up against the wall, hard, and she flinches again as the back of her skull impacts with the brickwork.

One more attempt from them.

"You are a spy."

"Not anymore," she sighs, terrified tears she had not realised were falling until now, seeping into her mouth as she speaks.

It is a familiar dance – or it has become so over the past four days. It is why she is here now; she couldn't tell them anything.

"Any last requests?"

She laughs once; an incredulous, mirthless bark of a laugh.

"I didn't know you actually said that."

Her tears are so thick now that she can't see anything. The world is a blur of darkness.

"A phone call," she rasps eventually.

They regard her with a look of disbelief.

"You can listen in," she assures them. She needs them to agree, because now she has allowed herself to imagine such a thing, she longs for it with every fibre of her being.

Eventually – for she has always been quietly impossible to refuse – they bring her a phone, tell her to put it on loudspeaker. She dials a number so familiar that she does not need her eyes to see the keypad; her fingers do it all by themselves.

_The person you are calling is not available at the moment. Please leave a message after the tone._

She does so, almost dutifully, and sighs with something that might be relief.

And then the phone is gone, and the gun is trained on her, and it is like the sky falling when cold cheek meets colder ground.

***

_Three months later_

"It is in here somewhere. I promise you, sweetheart."

Catherine regards her father's back with more than a little amusement as he digs about in the seemingly bottomless chest.

"Dad, I really don't mind. You can look for it in the morning. Let's just finish the pizza."

Harry didn't turn around to reply. "I'll let you in on a secret, Catherine – I detest pizza."

"Maybe that's why I chose it."

This retort is called over her shoulder. She has lost interest with watching her dad, and is now staring at a photograph that stands on his desk, a thoughtful expression on her face.

"Oh," said Harry, dryly. "So this was punishment then."

"More like a test." She grins, and crosses back over to her father, resting a hand briefly on his shoulder. "And you ate it, didn't you?"

He looks up to smile at her, but his attention is soon trained on the chest again.

She groans with mock exasperation.

"I should have known that you're unstoppable when you get a bloody notion into your head!"

"At least you don't have to wonder who you inherited _that _from any more."

The rapport that has built up between them is as much a defence mechanism as affection, but that suits both of them just fine. Neither has really ever gone in for big shows of emotion.

Eventually, Harry tires of his fruitless search, but instead of closing the chest and making some dinner that he will actually want to eat, he simply empties the contents all over the floor.

"_Dad_," sighs Catherine, "I'll just _buy_ another Polaroid camera to replace my broken one."

"But I have one in here somewhere," protests Harry. "And I don't use the bloody thing anymore."

Something in the dusty mountain of obsolete technology catches Catherine's eyes, and magpie-like, she grabs it.

"You bloody spies," she murmurs, turning the phone over and over in her had, almost reverently. "You know, I wanted this model for months. But I could never afford. I mean, it's still pretty good – and yet, here it is, lying in a forgotten corner of your study."

Harry wants to laugh at the outrage on her face. "I was glad to be rid of it," he chuckles. "Too many, flaming buttons. Anyway, Malcolm upgrades our phones more often than he changes his underwear. Pimps them with all manner of new features that I don't understand, and yet I'm sure I've used a hundred times over without even realizing."

Catherine is deftly disassembling the phone, obviously searching for signs of said 'pimping'.

"You've left your sim card in here," she notes.

"Yes. Does me good every so often. I mean, Malcolm assures me I can carry my old number over when I change sims, but I prefer to have a completely fresh start. Means I have more control over who can contact me directly."

"And who can spend six hours negotiating with your secretary."

"Exactly."

She slips the casing back onto the phone, and switches it on.

"Wow. You're popular," she laughs.

Harry looks over at the small screen, and sees that he has eighty-four text messages, and twenty-seven voicemails.

Almost absentmindedly, Catherine scrolls down the list of voicemail senders.

"Adam, Juliet…HS?"

"Home secretary."

"Bloody hell. …DG, Juliet, Juliet…"

"No doubt getting progressively more irate."

He is grateful that his daughter laughs lightly at his utterance, obviously oblivious to the significance of that name.

"…Debra Langham, Ros, Juliet – _again_, some number you haven't got saved, Ro–"

Harry cuts her off abruptly.

"After Juliet, and before Ros? You said that the phone didn't recognise the number?"

"Yeah. Is that significant?"

Harry takes the phone from her, dialing the voicemail retrieval number. "Unfamiliar is always significant," he replies adamantly.

Against his better judgment, he puts the phone on loudspeaker and they listen together to the messages. Catherine is in fits of laughter – albeit laughter with more than a hint of embarrassment – by the time they get to Juliet's third message.

"Did she just say she was going to castrate you?!"

Harry laughs darkly. "I wouldn't put it past her."

Eventually, they reach the message from the stranger. Catherine's still bubbling laughter stops abruptly as she watches the blood drain from her father's face.

"_Harry? It's me…Ruth, I mean."_

There is a nervous, almost hysterical, laugh from the woman, and then a long silence, as though she is trying to think of what to say.

During this silence, Harry grabs Catherine's hand tightly.

"Catherine, does she sound like she's crying?" He is whispering, as though afraid of interrupting the caller.

Catherine finally brings herself to nod, but 'Ruth' is speaking again.

"_I know I shouldn't be calling. I'm sorry. But, Harry…" _

Again, that laugh, and now the sobbing is startlingly obvious to both father and daughter.

"_They're going to kill me, Harry. I'm about to die."_

Harry can't help but cry out at this, and Catherine realises that she had never heard such a sound from her father. Pure terror, pure grief, pure rage. Every extreme is in that sound, and she is scared for him. She squeezes his hand more tightly.

"_They thought I could tell them things. But I couldn't. I didn't know anything, and so now I'm no use to them and…I'm so sorry. I wish I could be brave and not talk about that. Only talk about how much I love you, and I miss you, and I'm proud to have played a part in shaping you…"_

Harry has abandoned any hope of keeping control, and pulls Catherine to him, wrapping his arms tightly around her, and crying into her hair. She is all too aware that, just this once, she is the wrong shape for his embrace.

"…_But the truth is, I'm so scared. I'm so, so scared Harry. I wish you would pick up. I wish you were here with me. I always used to be less scared when you were around."_

All at once, as she feels her dad's ribcage heave with silent sobs, the photograph she saw on the desk, of the dark-haired woman – it feels like an eternity ago – makes sense. She hadn't understood; it was so unlike him to have personal things on display in his study.

"…_Oh, God. I'm going to die, and it's so unfair. It's _so _unfair! Why do I never get my happy ending? Why is it so impossible with you? Because that's all I wanted – never to be prettier, or braver, or anything. Just you, me, maybe a house somewhere. It would have been…oh, I can't think about that now. Not _now_. Or maybe…maybe, that's exactly what I'll think of…yes. Those will be my last thoughts, Harry…They want the phone now…I love you…so much…I love you…I love you…Goodbye –"_

The message comes to an abrupt halt, and the robotic commands of the phone ring out.

Catherine is crying now as well, but she heard it, even through her sobs for the stranger called Ruth, whose hair, she thought was 'hmm, nice length, perhaps I should try something like that...' The voice sounded so much calmer by the end. Almost serene.

The silence that sits in the study is fractured, insubstantial; almost as though Ruth is still speaking.

Harry's voice, when he breaks the silence, is the same – fractured, insubstantial.

"When was the message left?"

Catherine slides out of his arms a little, and reaches for the phone, still lying on the floor. She presses a few keys, and then answers.

"Three months ago."

She waits for him to talk again, but he doesn't. Not a single word for the rest of the night.

*

When she wakes up, she is lying in the spare bed, her shoes and socks removed, a blanket tucked tightly around her.

She sat with her father for hours. Stroked his hand and waited through the silence. She supposes that she must have fallen asleep eventually, and he carried her up here.

She strains, and she can hear muttering. He has relocated to his own bedroom and, through the wall, she can hear him talking to himself. Or to the photograph, perhaps.

She considers going to try and comfort him, but decides against it. His is a private grief, and she will respect that.

* * *

There will be a second chapter - it is written - uploaded over the next two days.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: SO sorry for the fact that this update seemed to have come to you via some sort of internet equivalent of the Himalayas – I did mean to post it just after 'Alone and Lonely', but stuff happened. Anyways, this chapter now, and (as I am miserably ill (yes on the weekend!!!!) with the world's most evilest cold, and therefore have nothing to distract me today) next chapter later today, or tomorrow.

Yes, _next_ chapter…this _was _going to be the last chapter, but after reading your feedback – particularly your requests for a happy conclusion – I did a rewrite. There; audience intervention works – this was gonna have a _bitch _of an ending originally. :)

This chapter, then one or two more (depending on how things pan out).

* * *

Adam does not shuffle awkwardly from foot to foot as he regards Harry across the desk. It is one of the things that he has always liked about the younger officer – he doesn't show any signs of intimidation. Ever.

"You've been like a bear with a sore head all week, Harry."

The tone of the reply is robotic. "Sorry. Meeting with Juliet. Impossible deadlines. You know how it is."

Adam raises his eyebrows. "Okay, so we've covered the line that I'm spinning to the others by way of explanation."

"I don't know what you mean."

Before, his voice would have been menacing, terrifying. Or even deceptively pleasant – like the lure of a black widow. Now, it is empty.

"You aren't in a bad mood because of Juliet."

"Then pray tell, Adam" snaps Harry, doing a pretty good impression of impatience, "Just what do you think _is _the problem – in your infinite wisdom?"

Adam isn't fooled by the outburst, and once more demonstrates his aversion to going all around the houses.

"You're hollow, Harry. Dead. Suddenly, there's nothing in you but rage and I don't know why that is. What worries me though, is how I can recognize it, and what that means for you."

They stare coldly at one another for a long while, the stench of testosterone almost unbearable. Eventually, Harry speaks.

"Ruth's dead."

Somehow, Adam knows. Knows as soon as the words leave his superior's mouth. But he doesn't _want_ to know. He wants to delay the inevitable.

"Yeah, I know, Harry, but –"

"No, Adam, you don't know. Ruth's _dead_."

For a moment, Adam wants to sink to the floor, and weep for his friend, and he thinks that, if he were with anyone else, he might. But this is Harry – it would feel almost disrespectful to cry for Ruth in _his_ presence. Harry and Ruth, Harry and Ruth, Harry and Ruth – they predated him, even.

"They found a body?" he gasps eventually.

"No. She was captured, tortured, and executed, and they let her leave me a voicemail message before they killed her."

Adam doesn't know what to say. They both know, from his own history, that what Harry really wants to hear – 'it gets better without it getting worse' – would be a lie.

*

That night, Harry sits on his sofa, Fidget and Nameless curled in his lap like Yin and Yang, Scarlet stretched out on the seat beside him.

This scene would not be an uncommon one, particularly not in the time following Ruth's abrupt departure all those months – no, _years; _he corrects himself – ago, but today it is markedly different. Today, Adam is with him also, his slim frame dwarfed by the other, larger sofa that he reclines on.

Both men clutch generous measures of their preferred poison in heavy glass tumblers, but neither drinks. They both have the same reason – one sip would lead to the inevitable quest to reach the bottom of the bottle in search of oblivion. Adam knows from past experience that this is not the answer, and does not want to be too ashamed to kiss his son goodnight when he checks on him later, upon his return home.

Harry knows that _she_ would be disappointed in him.

"I wasn't particularly nice to her when she first started," he notes eventually, in a tone that would seem almost casual were it not for his voice cracking halfway through.

Adam looks up, the ghost of a smile playing about his lips. "She was the only one who _was _particularly nice to me when I first started."

Harry regards him quizzically, silently inviting him to elaborate.

"Oh, you know how it is, Harry. There was me, waltzing in from six, replacing the man they'd followed loyally for years – they thought I was an arrogant prick."

Harry smirks. "Well, you could be most of the time."

"Yeah, thanks for that, Harry," replies Adam, in mock offense.

And suddenly, Harry's heart lifts a little, because she _would _approve of this. So very much.

He realises that Adam is talking again.

"–But _she_ was lovely. I mean, a little trouble remembering my name…" He grins to himself at the private memory. "…but apart from that. Nah, she really did try her best to welcome me."

"Funny. She was as loyal to Tom as everyone else was," Harry muses. _Except when I asked her to pick me over him,_ he adds silently. _She picked me then, didn't she?_

Adam looks solemn again. "Yeah. But that was the thing about Ruth, wasn't it? She didn't make snap judgments about people – she treated them all like individuals."

Harry thinks about how funny it is that now she is dead, people are making the same observations about her extraordinary character that he has always made.

Adam looks delicately at his glass, pretending not to notice when the older man covers his eyes with his hand, and begins to weep.

*

*

Much later, long after Adam has gone, and Harry has retreated to his bed, the phone rings. And for the first time in over twenty years, Harry ignores it. He knows that the answering machine downstairs will take a message, and if it's that bloody urgent, someone can call his mobile.

*

*

_Voicemail, _she notes. _Again._

There is more than a hint of black amusement to this thought, more than a hint of indignant disbelief.

She regards the full moon hanging above her, as though asking for advice. She even looks about at the men that surround her, stamping their feet against the icy cold wind that whips about the docks. She looks, despite the fact that they have no way of hearing what she can hear. No way of knowing that, once more, he isn't there to hear her.

Eventually, feeling reckless, she decides to take the robotic voice up on its offer, and records the second most difficult message of her life.

"Hello, Harry. It's me…

…Ruth."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: A/N: Well, I buggered up my timeline pretty spectacularly, didn't I? Blame the illness, but I totally forgot that Ruth's 'death' happened THREE MONTHS before Harry got the message; NOT twenty-four hours. It hit me just now – Ruth really wouldn't still be all battered up, would she???

Feeling more than a little ditzy right now!!! Anyways, editing and re-posting, sorry to all who already read.

* * *

A petite brunette regards the reflection in the full-length mirror. She takes in her surroundings before she dares to look at herself.

*

_Despite the horror, despite the dread, despite the hopelessness, it can at least be said that everything leading up to this moment - the gun is trained on her – made sense._

_But then everything turns upside-down._

"_Go! Go! Go!"_

_*_

She could be stood in any hotel room in any country in the world. It is small, white, and anonymous. She doesn't want to make a fuss, but the room sometimes terrifies her. Especially at night – it reminds her of her cell.

In the midst of this sterile blankness, she should look wrong, messy. But she has come to wear her dark bruises, her thick cuts, with something close to pride. For three years she has been invisible, and this latest experience has coloured her back in, defined her all over again. And now she knows.

*

_The words come from one of the men stood before her, one of the men who dragged her from her cell. For a moment, she thinks she might be dreaming, but no one else seems to be really in control either._

_The last thing she registers is the look of confusion in her captors' faces, before she is pressed to the ground by man who yelled._

_There are screams and shouts, gunfire deafening her almost immediately. She is vaguely aware of the voice barking in her ear, telling her in newly-muffled tones to _keep her head down!_ But when she considers that this is the same voice that yelled questions at her whilst twisting her fingers into new, unnatural shapes, it all seems so confusing._

_So she decides to shut her eyes, and escape from it all._

_*_

All that has been running around and around her head is the fact that when they handed her that phone, she didn't have to think twice. She barely thought once – she already knew who it was that she was going to call. Who she had to speak to just once more.

She meets her own eyes in the mirror.

"I am still Ruth Evershed." Her voice is almost reproachful. "And Ruth Evershed needs to finally have an ending."

*

*

_She can hear voices. One, the voice that makes no sense; the other, new, unfamiliar._

"_I don't understand. I pushed her so hard and she never broke. If she was a traitor –"_

"_Oh, Jamie. I think just about everyone in five _and _six realises that Ruth Evershed was just the world's unluckiest scapegoat."_

"_You believe that?"_

"_That she burned herself to save Harry Pearce, to do the right thing?"_

"_Yeah."_

"_Yeah, I do. What about you?"_

"_I didn't. But now…Jesus, Mike, I pushed her _so_ hard."_

_*_

As if on cue, there is a knock, and she turns from her reflection, almost as though in respect to the person on the other side of the door.

"Yes?"

"Are you ready to leave, Ruth?"

She looks back at herself just once more, asking the same question that has just been posed to her.

Is she ready?

"Not yet."

Not yet.

*

_The other man sounds as though he is about to say something by way of a reply, but she chooses this moment to open her eyes._

"_Where am I?"_

_She decides to skip the formalities._

*

It is three months before she is ready. Three months before she knows that she can stand to finally put her old life to rest.

It is ridiculously late in England by the time she is back on British soil, three in the morning when she arrives on the docks in London. She wonders if anyone knows that this is where she left him all that time ago.

Three new men appear; the two who formerly accompanied her, disappearing. One of the new men has a phone which he hands to her. She takes it, murmuring a small 'thank you'. Even now, she doesn't forget her manners.

*

"_You're in hospital. You're safe."_

"_You're British…?" She trails off, having worked out nothing more than this._

"_We're MI6, Ruth."_

"_Shit."_

_The men laugh, and she realises that she must have voiced this sentiment out loud._

"_Don't worry, Ruth. We're not going to arrest you."_

_She considers this for a long while, before murmuring, in a voice still cracked with dehydration and exhaustion, "You tortured me."_

_The man called Jamie dips his eyes in shame. "Yes. I'm…I'm sorry."_

*

For a while, she is silent, considering what it is that she could possibly say to him. The consideration is pointless, she soon finds.

_Voicemail. Again._

"Hello, Harry. It's me…Ruth."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Well, I buggered up my timeline pretty spectacularly, didn't I? Blame the illness, but I totally forgot that Ruth's 'death' happened THREE MONTHS before Harry got the message; NOT twenty-four hours. It hit me just now – Ruth really wouldn't still be all battered up, would she???

Feeling more than a little ditzy right now!!! Anyways, editing and re-posting, sorry to all who already read.

* * *

Harry's mobile wakes him at an obscenely early hour.

"Hello?" he mumbles, more than a little groggily. He hasn't even bothered checking who it is that is calling.

Luckily, it's Adam.

"Harry. I hate to do this to you, but Zaf's contact, Osprey? She's come to us with something that could be big."

_Not Zaf's contact, _protests Harry's sleep-addled mind. _Danny's. Danny's contact first._

His life appears to have come full-circle. Perhaps that means that she will appear again soon.

"Harry? _Harry_?"

He realises that Adam is trying to drag his attention back to the matter in hand.

"I'll be there in half an hour. Try to keep things under control until then."

*

Adam is not a man who scares easily, but some prospects in this life terrifying enough to unsettle even him.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Harry?"

Harry straightens his tie in a manner that could almost be described as ferocious, and for a moment, it is like having the old him back again.

"I'm sure, Adam."

"But we couldn't follow you. If it all goes tits up, the fastest special forces could reach you would be –"

"–About seven minutes," interrupts Harry, now concentrating on his overcoat. "Yes, I've been talking to Malcolm too." He continues as he buttons up the garment. "Look, I don't mean to sound arrogant here, but I am the only one who can talk Patterson about of this."

Adam grins for the first time that day. "I'm guessing that has nothing to do with the compelling moral argument you could put forward."

"You're guessing right," replies Harry, returning the grin. "More to do with a couple of unflattering photographs, and a black, leather-bound notebook."

For a moment or two, it is almost as though there is nothing wrong, but inevitably the mood dampens once more.

"What the hell sort of advantage would Patterson gain from a terror attack anyway?" asks Adam, somewhat rhetorically.

"_That _is what we'll find out once we've stopped him," says Harry, his voice dark and determined.

He slips on his gloves, and leaves.

*

Harry feels the bullet entering his flesh. It's agonizing to be sure, but there is something different. Something hopeful.

He grits his teeth, and squeezes the trigger, watching the man before him fall sluggishly to the floor. It is with no little grim satisfaction that he notes that he is a far better shot than Patterson.

When he is sure that he is safe, he allows his eyes to slide shut, and rests his head and shoulders back on the ground.

_Seven minutes_, he thinks to himself. _Seven minutes._

*

*

Adam slams the door shut behind him. It strikes him as a little odd that this is the second time he has found himself in Harry's house in as many days.

This absentminded musing is interrupted by the shrill ringing of his mobile. He fumbles in his jacket pocket for a moment before extracting the offending object and pressing it tightly to his ear.

"Malcolm....Yeah, hi….No, he's fine, Malcolm….Yeah. Lucky bastard – bullet missed everything vital. He'll be running marathons in no time…Alright, well pouring scotches then…Seriously, Malcolm – they let me in his room, and he ordered me straight back out. Told me to piss off, let him sleep, and, oh, could I please feed his dog…Okay, bye."

He chuckles to himself as he slips the mobile back into his pocket. It is a somewhat desperate sound – he has only just stopped trembling with the relief of it all.

Suddenly, a blinking light catches his eye; Harry has a message waiting for him on the answering machine. He momentarily considers respecting his boss' privacy and leaving it, but then decides that he should probably give it a listen, in case it is urgent. He can always relay the details back to Harry.

He presses the button.

"_Hello, Harry. It's me…Ruth. Look, I haven't got time to explain, but I'm okay. Harry, I'm okay! I'd love to see you, and if you can make it, I'll meet you at the usual place, this evening, at seven. Please come, Harry. I think it might be time to make the unsaid…well, said."_

A wide grin claiming his features, Adam flicks his sleeve down to uncover his watch and deduces that he has twelve minutes.

He can make it if he puts his foot down.

*

Ruth is looking out at the river when she feels a hand on her shoulder. She is proud to note that she doesn't flinch at the surprise contact.

"Hello, stranger."

"…Adam!"

She blinks rapidly a number of times, trying to take in the sight before her. Right at this moment, it doesn't seem to matter that this is not the man she has been expecting – she is too overwhelmed.

She has spent the day taking in the familiar sights and sounds and smells of London, and yet, until now, she has felt strangely detached from it all. But now that her old friend is stood before her, she suddenly – _finally –_ feels like she is back at home.

The pair hug tightly for a moment, deeply breathing in oh-so-familiar scents. Finally, Ruth breaks away, though Adam's arms stay determinedly on her own.

"I don't understand! Where's Harry?"

Adam considers the question.

"Harry doesn't know you're still alive."

Ruth frowns, beginning to shake her head.

"He's in hospital, Ruth," Adam continues, before hurriedly adding, "He's fine. He was shot, but he's absolutely fine. They just want to keep him in overnight."

Ruth's eyes are wide, staring, as she attempts to absorb this knowledge, and Adam squeezes her arms reassuringly – half out of friendship, half because it feels almost as though if he squeezes hard enough, he can somehow turn back time and prevent her ordeal.

"Bastard promised me he wouldn't get shot," murmurs Ruth, oblivious to Adam's scrutiny. "Can I see him, Adam? Please?"

Adam forces himself to look back in her eyes, and drag his attention from the injuries he knows she will have sustained. There will be a day for revenge, he is sure, but it isn't today.

"Of course," he replies cheerily. "But why don't we go for a coffee first? That is, of course, as long as your…er, minders…don't mind."

Ruth chuckles, following his gaze as he quickly spots the three discretely-positioned men.

"MI6," she says with a smile.

Adam raises his eyebrows and she chuckles again.

"Yeah, I'll explain that too," she promises.

*

She insists on him filling her in on the details of Harry's shooting before she even considers beginning her own story. But eventually, when she is satisfied that she knows all there is to know, and that Harry really is okay, she explains.

"They caught up with me in Italy – a few old friends of Fiona's, looking to wrap up some loose ends," she begins.

"What sort of loose ends?" asks Adam immediately, but Ruth shakes her head. It is obvious that she wants this part of her story to be as quick and painless as possible.

"They drugged me, took me to Syria. They tortured me, but I couldn't really tell them anything. They were looking for information that was too recent, too ongoing. I was no use to them at all."

"So they decided to execute you."

"Exactly. And that's where things get…complicated. As it turns out, one of my interrogators was an undercover officer from six."

"What?!"

Adam's eyes are blazing, his knuckles turning white where he is gripping his coffee mug.

"You know how it works, Adam," says Ruth, in a low voice. "He couldn't break cover."

"Despite the fact that you were specifically targeted for being an ex-spook. Despite the fact that he knew he was torturing one of his own." His tone is deceptively calm.

She nods, quickly covering his hands with her own, to stop him flinging his cup against the wall.

"_Adam_," she pleads.

In the end, he calms himself for her. "So, he was happy torturing you, but lost his nerve when it came to watching you die?"

"Well, it was more complicated than that – his operation was falling apart anyway. So he picked me up."

"And brought you here. Why?"

Ruth sighs, blowing absentmindedly on her tea. "He felt guilty, Adam. He hated himself for what he did to me, so he arranged for me to come and see Harry. By way of…"

"_Apology_." Adam spits the word out vehemently. "Is he one of those guys in the car outside?"

"No. He's kept his distance since I regained consciousness."

A very long silence follows her utterance. Adam senses that the story has come to an end – at least as far as his own ears are concerned – and he swiftly steers the subject back to one that she knows will make her – and him – smile again.

"Well, I suppose I should take you to see Harry then."


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Yay! New chapter goodness. :D

This one's dedicated to TheGrandTour – apologies again!

* * *

Harry sleeps fitfully.

He has dreams that make no sense;

he wakes and thinks he is sleeping,

sleeps and thinks that he is awake.

And all the while, he can hear a laugh,

and see a smile,

and feel the soft pressure of someone's

lips.

More than anything though, he feels the loss of those things.

He remembers a time when it all seemed so bloody simple. A time when they would both arrive at work, day in, day out, within minutes of each other. At first, they would both use these quiet moments before the rest of the team were present to catch up on work, but eventually, they simply became a time for them to sit together and…talk.

Just talk, about anything and everything. In the early days, before friendship had become something more he would ask her how her date – which she had _finally _been able to go on – had been. She would tell him about spilling wine all over the shirt of the man who had turned out to be mind-numbingly dull, and together they would laugh.

They didn't talk about him very often – of the two, he was certainly the more uncomfortable about discussing his personal life – but over time, she came to learn about him in other ways.

And over time, the conversation became more stilted as both realised that they longed for small-talk to become more significant

He hears a nurse bustling about, checking on him. He hopes that he doesn't see the tears that have begun falling once more.

God, he misses her.

*

Adam does an admirable job of simply pretending that they aren't being tailed all the way to the hospital. Ruth can tell that he is uncomfortable about the constant MI6 presence, but for her sake, he keeps his mouth shut.

In fact, he has been remarkably affectionate all evening, which confuses her. They were always close, in the old days, but something about his behaviour now seems different, almost apologetic.

She realises that her confusion must have been showing on her face, because he answers her almost as though she had asked her question aloud.

"Look, Ruth, I just wanted to say…"

He trails off for a moment, focusing intently on the roundabout before them while he tries to find the right words. She waits patiently.

Eventually, "Well, it's just that I wasn't really completely myself before you left, and…it did mean a lot to me, losing you. But…I mean, you'd been since the beginning, hadn't you? But with Fi and all that…"

The usually cool Adam is tying himself in knots, and she takes pity on him.

"Adam, you did everything you could. Do you really think I didn't understand?"

Her voice is gently reproachful and he smiles a little bashfully.

"Yeah, but you always wonder, don't you? If I'd been completely on the ball–"

"Would I still have been as stubborn and immovable as I was? You couldn't have done anything more. Now, that conversation is over. Okay?"

"Okay?"

*

When they arrive at the hospital, she realises that her hands are shaking. There is quite a difference between imagining another meeting with a long-lost love, and actually being stood in the same building as him, knowing that he is on the other side of the door before her.

"I'm scared, Adam," she admits quietly.

Adam smiles gently. "Don't be. He's missed you, Ruth. He was absolutely distraught when he thought you'd been killed."

"Oh, Christ – I'm not going to give him a bloody heart-attack or something, am I?"

He laughs at her question. "No. I think he'll be just fine." She looks as though she is about to interject, but he raises a hand before she can. "Now, thanks to Jo's _unrivalled _people skills, you've got as long as you want with him. People might pop in and out, but no one will challenge you, okay?"

She is still looking worried.

"Ruth? _Okay_?"

"Okay," she repeats finally. "Wish me luck."

"You don't need it."

*

Harry feels the soft linger of

fingers

down the line of his profile.

*

He seems so…_real_. Part of her wonders if this is an inadequate response to finally seeing him again, but it is nonetheless her overriding feeling. After three years of dreams and memories, to see him in such startling reality…

She is relieved to see that Adam was telling the truth; for a man who has that day taken a bullet, he looks reassuringly healthy. She is also relieved to see that he is sleeping. She smirks momentarily at the thought of what would have happened otherwise – she imagines much yelling and chaos.

When she finally feels that she can move her legs again, she crosses over to the bed. Part of her feels guilty at the thought of touching him, but the guilt isn't enough to actually stop her.

Blowing on her hands to warm them up, she reaches out with her fingertips, gently stroking down the centre of his face. She can't stop herself from gasping softly as she does so.

She is so wrapped up in the moment that she doesn't notice him stirring, and the hand the creeps up to grasp her own surprises her.

"Mmmwhoist?"

His words run together, his eyes still blurred and unseeing. She supposes that the painkillers will have made him a little dopey. A good thing, perhaps – it might cushion the shock.

"It's Ruth. I'm alive."

Ah. So much for cushioning the shock. His eyes snap open immediately, determinedly focusing on her face. For a full minute he simply stares silently. And then…

"I love you too," he says suddenly.

Her confusion must once more show on her face, because he elaborates.

"Every day since I got your message I've wanted to tell you that I love you too. I wanted to see you again – even if it was just for five seconds – and tell you."

She laughs and sobs at the same time. His grip on her wrist tightens. With each passing moment, she seems more real.

"Well, you've got me for a bit longer than five seconds, Harry."

Despite his shock, he manages self-deprecatingly.

"Perhaps I should have started with some small talk then. You look well."

And now they are both laughing and crying. It is as if the moment is too big, too significant. Neither of them was ever much good at the emotional stuff.

She leans down, kissing him softly.

"I remember you promising something about not getting shot," she notes.

He caresses her cheek softly as he murmurs, "On the plus side, I did take in your moggies."

"Oh, well. That's okay then." Her sarcasm is more than a little dampened by her wide grin.

They kiss again, this time initiated by him. Aptly, the embrace is far longer and deeper than the former. He feels something, though. Something in the movement of her lips, in the feeling of her arms around him. A familiar sorrow.

He pulls back reluctantly.

"Ruth. When you said I had you for a bit longer than five seconds…?"

"Tonight, Harry. Just tonight." She reaches over and entwines their fingers. "Tomorrow, MI6 are going to take me as far as Calais, and then they're going to lose me. Forever, this time. The trail will run cold, and no one will be able to find me."

He looks down blankly at their joined hands. "I lost you forever already. The first time broke my heart, and the second time broke me. I can't lose you again."

"Harry you can't ask me…"

He notes the pleading tone in her voice, and knows that he is being selfish.

"Well, I'd better make sure I don't fall asleep then," he murmurs eventually.

It is supposed to be a joke, but somehow, this one isn't funny.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Has just been pointed out to me that there's a line in here that looks like I've nabbed the idea from a fic (think the authors in question'll probably spot it). Erm, not intentional in the slightest. Pure conincidence. On t'other hand, The One With the Wedding in Cancun (which I've just worriedly reread) is brilliant - give it a read.

* * *

When he can bear to loosen his grip on her, she pulls a chair from the edge of the room to the side of his bed.

"One last night together, then?"

Harry's voice is restrained and neutral, but Ruth leaps on his suggestive phrasing immediately.

"Harry, we're in a hospital. And anyway, you'd rip your stitches."

He laughs darkly, once more claiming her hand in his.

"You have a filthy mind, Miss Evershed."

She raises her eyebrows, and her lips purse in a familiar expression of bemusement.

"That's coming from you? 'It's your own room'. Honestly."

The awkward moment she is speaking about is forever ingrained in his memory.

"I was hoping you'd forgotten about that," he admits, wincing.

"How could I forget? It was such an odd thing to say."

"Well, I didn't know quite _what _to say, did I? You were giving me rather mixed messages."

"Actually," she argues cheekily, "I think you'll find that I was pretty consistent."

"Ah, yes. The 'not a hope in hell' signal. I was getting that loud and clear. But then," he switches to a more teasing tone, "There was all that seductive arm-stroking."

"What?!"

For the sake of the preservation of her dignity, she pretends to be ignorant of the reference. He wishes that he had thought to adopt the same tactic when she was the one doing the teasing.

"_You remember_." He humours her. "When Ros pointed out so sensitively that my personal life was essentially a train wreck – you came in to my office –"

"To comfort you!" she interjects, aghast at where he is heading with this.

"Yes. And then you stroked my arm." He grins boyishly, adding in an angelic voice, "In a rather suggestive manner."

Her face is stormy, but amused at the same time, and she with a very smug air about her, she makes a great show of being the mature one, and ignoring his jibes.

"All I'll say, Harry," she murmurs eventually, her tone measured and cool, "Is that if I had really tried to be 'seductive', you would not have let me walk out of that office."

She blushes as she speaks, but he is delighted, and pulls her face close so that there lips are mere millimeters apart.

"Careful," he warns, in a low, growling tone. "You wouldn't want me to rip my stitches out of mere anticipation, would you?"

She rolls her eyes, but closes the space between them nonetheless.

*

They spend the rest of the night in such a manner, talking and touching. They reminisce about old friends and battles long concluded. They remember scuffed floors, PMT, and call signs. Bus seats, rooftops, and restaurants. Memoirs and hackers, rock stars and LZs. Even exploding consciences. They seem to have come to a silent agreement that they will not discuss the fact that she will disappear again in the morning.

At about midnight she tells him about her experience in Syria.

He caresses her not-long healed fingers, kisses away her tears, and holds her tight against him as she recounts the details that they both know he will be the only one to ever hear. She tells him how she used to dream about him when she slept in her cell at night. She tells him how she cried and screamed as they beat her. She tells him how she was so scared sometimes that she though the fear alone might kill her. She tells him everything.

At twenty past one, he tells her about receiving her message.

He tells her of the hopelessness and despair. He tells her of the guilt and regret. He tells her how Catherine tried to make it hurt less, but even she could do nothing. He tells her how he began to wish. Wish for those five more seconds.

At just gone two, they discuss how long it will take Malcolm to ask Ros on a date.

At three they imagine Jo and Zaf's hypothetical wedding. They decide that 'spin the bottle' will probably feature heavily in the proceedings.

At a little past four in the morning, they fall asleep together. She sits in the chair, her head resting at the side of the bed. He keeps locks of her chocolaty hair wrapped around his fingers all night.

At eight, he wakes, and she is already gone.

*

She slips out while he is still sleeping, switching on her phone when she is exactly nineteen paces from his room. She is glad of the distraction provided by the realisation that she has a voicemail message waiting for her, but wary nonetheless. Only a handful of people on the planet have the number.

"_Hi, Ruth? It's Jamie. Look, I wanted to leave you in peace after…what happened. But I've got some news for you, and I'm sorry, but I couldn't resist being the one to tell you. I know that nothing I can do or say will ever make you forgive me, but hopefully…"_

'Get to the bloody point!' she thinks.

And then, he does just that.

* * *

One more chapter, then it's really all over. I'm sorry if it's not your thing, but prepare for a bit of fluff! Oh, and does anyone reckon they can put their finger on all the references I made??? Give it a go. You know you want to!


	7. Chapter 7

Sorry that this is a little later than I said it would be – laptop being temperamental. Okay, the reference people were asking about in particular was the 'LZ' one. Christine Dale and other CIA dude are discussing 'landing zones' (Ruth: "Well, why couldn't they just say that then?!") Also comes a little before that fabulous moment:

Harry: Would you like some coffee?

Ruth: TEA!

Lollage. LOVE it.

Anyways, usual last chapter stuff applies – anyone and everyone who's reviewed: biggest, hugest, most MASSIVE-EST ­thank you!!! Appreciate every single one.

Special mention to TheGrandTour and cbjfan61 for the messages – this one is for you guys and everyone else who took the time to drop in with a review.

Over and out!

* * *

_One year later_

Harry listens to the complete and utter bollocks being spouted by his MI6 counterpart and feels himself losing his temper.

"How can you say that this is a complex matter?" he demands. "This is a remarkably simple matter! The information – had it been shared with us sooner – would have saved a huge amount of time! And you're lucky that my team is quite so capable or we would have been talking in terms of _lives _not time!"

The man before him – considered the safe bet after Collingwood – stutters and flaps. Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes, and instead turns to Adam.

"Are we about done here, do you think?" His voice is cuttingly polite as he poses the 'question' to his officer.

Adam grins.

"Yeah, I think so," he replies simply.

Without any further ado, they sweep out of the room, leaving the Home Secretary and the man from six looking more than a little indignant.

They are about halfway down the imposing corridor when it occurs to them to switch their phones back on. Not that they are _expecting _any calls. After all, the team is mostly occupied with tying up the loose ends of the latest op. But both men know that expectations have little relevance in this job.

As the welcome screen fades from Harry's phone, he notices that he has a voicemail message. He smiles when he sees the caller ID.

He dials the number to retrieve it.

"_So I was right in guessing that you switched off your phone for the meeting. Perfect. Because in your time, you've just stormed out of the room; probably swearing, definitely red in the face."_

He can't help but smile at that. He is glad that she isn't there to see him.

"_But in _my _time, you've just left the car. I'm still with the driver – you can probably hear the car in the background."_

He can.

"_You've only just said goodbye to me. You didn't care that we could be seen when you kissed me and told me that you loved me. I can almost hear the echo of your words."_

He glances at his watch – the moment she is describing happened a little over two hours ago now, but hearing her now makes it seem like mere seconds ago.

"_Right at this very moment in time, you are in a wonderful mood; I can tell. Right now, you remember why it is that you should be grateful to our 'big sister'. I thought I'd remind you of that._

Harry remembers all over again.

_The morning after their Last Night Together_

Ruth stands stock still as she listens to the message. And then she runs. Back to Harry's room, as fast as her legs will carry her.

He doesn't even have time to look shocked as she re-enters.

"Imstaying!" She is breathless, her hands clutching nervously at the fabric of her skirt.

"What?" he murmurs, sounding suitably confused.

"I'm staying! Jamie just called me, he's pulled some shady strings, and cleared my name, and _Harry_! I'm staying! I'm staying in London!"

He looks blank for a moment, before asking, in a quiet voice, "Is that what you want?"

She regards him as though he is an idiot, and for a moment looks as though she is about to tell him so. She changes her mind at the last minute, however, and in lieu of any sort of verbal abuse, she crosses the room in five short strides, and kisses him soundly on the mouth.

Later, both will come to regard it as their first proper kiss. The first time she kissed him hello instead of goodbye. It is quite breathtakingly beautiful.

She pulls away eventually, a wide, unrepentant grin on her face.

"Are you discharging yourself today?"

He grins back, answering quickly.

"They'd have a job keeping me here any longer."

"Good." They kiss once more. "Because I need somewhere to stay."

*

_Six months later_

The message continues.

"_So be patient, Harry. I mean, I'm fully aware that expecting you to go back and apologise for being rude would just be…well, idiotic, really. Just try not to come back home _too _red-faced and irritable. For me…?"_

And there she rings off. Nothing more is needed though – even Adam notices the smile he now wears.

"Ruth then," he concludes cockily.

Harry looks for a moment as though he is going to retort with one of his patented put-downs, but he seems to change his mind at the last moment.

"Are you and Wes still coming for dinner tomorrow?" he asks cheerily.

"As long as Ruth isn't making her pasta again," replies Adam.

The sound of both men's laughter echoes through the hall for a long while after they have left for home, and loved ones, and happiness.


End file.
